A Summer of Discontent

When they reached the river near the Monks’ Hythe, Bartholomew shed his leggings to wade across it, so that they could examine both banks simultaneously. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his skin, and Michael eyed him enviously before removing his sandals so that he could dabble his fat, white feet at the water’s edge. He declined to go any deeper, claiming he could not swim.

The day grew steadily hotter, so that walking became uncomfortable. Bartholomew took to paddling along in the shallows, storing his shoes among some reeds to be collected on their return journey. Michael’s complaints grew more and more frequent, and he began to make unsubtle demands for the medicinal wineskin in Bartholomew’s bag. The physician remained unmoved, arguing that wine would only make the monk more thirsty, and that he would do better to drink some water from one of the many small brooks they passed. Bartholomew did not recommend the river on the grounds that it had already been through Cambridge, and he knew exactly what had been dumped in it there.

When they neared Chettisham, some two miles distant, Michael waved to Bartholomew that they had gone far enough. The physician agreed, knowing that Glovere, Chaloner and Haywarde would not have been killed too far away: it would not have been easy to make them walk far as prisoners, and the killer would hardly have carried them, knowing that they would fetch up in Ely anyway. He followed Michael into a tavern called the Swan for a glass of cool ale, before beginning the return journey.

The tavern was dark after the glare of the sun, and Bartholomew could barely see where he was walking, even though its door and windows shutters were thrown open to allow the air to circulate. He stumbled to a table like a blind man, and listened in growing alarm to the extensive list of food that Michael was ordering from the taverner. When his eyes grew used to the gloom, he looked around him.

It was a large establishment for a remote location, with thick stone walls and a paved floor. It was virtually empty: the day was fine and there was work to be done in the fields. Two elderly men sat at a table near the empty hearth, staring at the ale in their cups with rheumy eyes. At another table, this one tucked in a corner, were Richard de Leycestre and Guido. Bartholomew gazed at them in surprise, wondering not only what had brought them together, but why they were so far from Ely when they should have been working. Once Michael had finished ordering his repast, he too watched the muttered conversation in the shadows, drawing his cowl over his head so that he would not be recognised. Bartholomew took Michael’s wide-brimmed hat and wore it low, so that it hid his face.

The gypsy and the farmer seemed to be arguing, so intent on their own business that they were unaware of the interest they had attracted from the tavern’s latest arrivals. Guido’s gold hat bobbed furiously as he made some point or other, while Leycestre stabbed the table with a forefinger as he spoke. It was not an easy discussion. Eventually, Guido stood, glared at Leycestre and stalked towards the door, clearly furious. A few moments later, Leycestre also took his leave. Unlike Guido, who had headed straight to the door without taking the precaution of looking around him, Leycestre was circumspect. He saw two figures hunched over their ale with cowls and hats hiding their faces, and stared at them for some time, evidently unsure whether it would be safer just to leave or to approach them and find out who they were.

Apparently, he decided it would be better to know, and he tipped his hat in greeting as he edged closer to their table. Michael flipped back his cowl and beamed at him, enjoying the expression of horror that crossed the labourer’s face when he recognised the Bishop’s agent. Leycestre regained control of himself quickly.

‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What brings you all the way out here? We do not usually have monks and priory guests in this small village.’

‘It is a good place to meet fellow rebels, then, is it?’ asked Michael, drawing his own conclusions about the meeting he had just witnessed.

Leycestre laughed nervously. ‘Guido and I were just enjoying a drink. We have known each other for many years.’

‘It did not look as though either of you was enjoying it to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging the hat on to the table. ‘And I was under the impression that you disliked each other — you have accused his clan of burgling town houses and killing Ely’s citizens.’

‘That is because they are probably guilty,’ snapped Leycestre, nettled. ‘But it does not mean that I cannot share his table when we both happen to arrive for a much-needed ale.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, narrowing his eyes. ‘You met by chance? You did not arrange to do so because you imagined it would be well away from anyone who might know you?’